Waterlily
by HGRomance
Summary: Peeta's a high school exchange student spending a year on Panem Island, a foreign land of blue coves, lilting guitar melodies, and floral-scented breezes. He thought he left his love behind in America. But after meeting a village girl with a wild side, he's not sure where his heart belongs. Modern AU. Banner by Ro Nordmann on AO3.
1. Chapter 1

**A little preview of a story set for regular postings this fall. It's a special one for me. I was once an exchange student, and I've been hoping to weave such an experience into a love story for a very long time. Although there are some details that came from my own background, most of this is simply inspiration. Ultimately, this is Everlark's story, not mine.  
**

**Thank you to Chelzie, iLoVeRynMar, Court81981, and misshoneywell. And to Ro Nordmann for the pretty banner!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own THE HUNGER GAMES trilogy. It belongs to Suzanne Collins. I merely want to spend more time with her characters.**

* * *

WATERLILY

_Katniss_

I could just let the tide pull me under. The moment is perfect, the moon's rays scuttling across my arms, the taste of saltwater on my lips, and a thread of seaweed grazing the side of my breast. The waves jostle me around, practically begging me to let go. I float and glide and plop beneath the surface. I blow bubbles, then break through and suck in a mouthful of humid air. I lose myself in the sea and feel invincible.

Yes, I could let the tide take me. Or I could pretend to put up a fight, arms cutting through the water until I'm too tired to do anything else but die happy. The coral reefs are waiting for me to sink. They're waiting to catch me in a sharp, pink hug and slice me to ribbons.

In a few minutes, I could drown and be with her again. Then I could gather primroses for her, and we could smile at the significance of it and live the rest of our lives on a new type of island forever...or not. Getting into Heaven would be a challenge for someone like me. And if I even did crack the secret password and step over that threshold, my sister would be furious to see me. I had better not do it if it means getting reprimanded by her in the afterlife. Or perhaps I'll simply wait for another night.

Sigh. Life would be much more interesting as a mermaid or a piece of buried treasure.

I bob in place and glance at the foam stretching across the beach in the distance. Panem Island's cliffs and peaks are green during the day, black at night. The thin-necked silhouettes of palm trees rock in the wind, coconuts dangling like giant testicles. I laugh and then choke on the sound. _Shhh._

My body bounds forward, fighting the temptation to stay where I am. Coming back to shore, it's a harder swim than when I first dove in. The water smacks my cheeks and shoves itself into my chest. The sea wants me.

I clamber out, my nipples stiff as shells, my wet braid snaking around my neck like a collar, and the damp sand sucking at my heels and crowding between my toes. Where did I leave my nightgown?

I locate the flimsy orange slip a few feet away and shrug it over my head. Because I don't bother with a towel, the nightgown clings to my dripping curves. The ruffled hem covers my bare ass and trembles in the breeze.

The beach smells different tonight. Not like the usual sultry fragrance of tan lotion that lingers after sunset, nor like the typical scents of papaya or orchids. Instead, I'm intoxicated by melted sugar.

How odd. It's not a local scent.

Primrose would have said it's a sign that something's about to change. She always swore by things like that.

Frogs croak at me as I cross from the beach into Seam Village. Sandy hills become dirt roads. The outlines of thatched roofs, round terra-cotta shacks, and hibiscus bushes come into view. I spot Old Man Sae on his porch, the only other villager still awake besides me. The hushed curl of his guitar fills my ears with a melody, what outsiders would call "exotic" or "spicy." No lyrics, only the pluck of his instrument.

Grinning, I snap my hips gently from side to side, humming along, relishing the way the guitar sets me free. I fall into a lazy dance. If the rhythm were a little faster, I'd spin and try to turn back time.

It's late. I drag myself from the music and keep going. The windows of my uncle's cottage are open, an attempt to filter out the moist heat even though it's futile in late August. I still refuse to call the cottage home. Mama and I used to live on the east shore, but we had to leave after Primrose died. We moved here to the western side so that my uncle could keep a closer watch on us.

The house isn't very different. It still has two rooms like our old place, except these rooms are bigger. I don't have to share a bed with Mama the way I did with Primrose. I slip through the window and tiptoe across the living room, which is also the dining room, which is also part of the kitchen.

"Bedtime already?" a voice mocks behind me.

I stop in my tracks and groan inwardly. The problem isn't that I've been caught—I never care about that. It's that I'm tired. I want to go to sleep...I want to _try_ to go to sleep.

Wheeling around, I find my uncle reclining in his favorite wooden chair, what he calls The Situation Chair, his throne of damage control. He reeks of tequila, and his attitude is stuck somewhere between lucid and glazed. He taps a finger to his chin, unsurprised by my visible nakedness beneath the soaked nightgown.

His gaze slides down to my bare feet, amusement twitching at the margins of his lips. "So you left anyway. I should have known you'd be determined."

Did he really think hiding my shoes would stop me from sneaking out and doing whatever I wanted? That's funny.

But something's not right. I feel it. He isn't brooding enough. I've given him a run for his money this past year, but he looks like he might have gotten a second wind. From what?

Mosquitoes buzz around us, hunting us for blood. I've read that they have a fatal ancestor called the tracker jacker. It's extinct, but mosquitoes are enough to deal with, ravenous and vicious in their own way. They love me. One of them stings my calf, and I slap at it in the dark.

"And where have you been this fine tropical evening?" Uncle Haymitch asks. "Skinny-dipping with Finnick again?"

I roll my eyes. Haymitch enjoys judging my boyfriend. He lives to drink and make Finnick look bad, and he also doesn't understand what the handsomest boy on this island wants from a plain-featured girl like me. Neither do I.

Though I suppose it might have something to do with how often I let Finnick fuck me. I don't have anyone to compare him to—he's was my first, and I haven't been with anyone else—but I've shattered enough times in his arms, in his room and on the sand, to know he's good at sex. He doesn't mind that I'm quiet. He enjoys my open mouth and silent screams. Sometimes it's hard to keep it all in, but I do. Even when he's pounding away between my thighs, I don't lose that part of myself. I don't let go.

We're good together. I don't ask for an emotional relationship, and neither does he. He can't get enough of my body, and losing him forever wouldn't wound me. It's a safe bet with him.

My uncle takes another guess. "Or were you out smoking banana leaves with your playmates?"

Jo and Tigris are my friends, not playmates. Eccentrics are underrated.

"Ahhh," he says, inspecting my face more closely. "So you were alone and untamed. That's rarely good. Once a sweetheart, now nothing but a wild thing."

I disregard the hole in my heart and raise a quizzical eyebrow. _You seem surprised._

Haymitch chuckles. "One of these days, you're going to talk to me."

I will never talk. Not again. Ever.

Not for anyone.

"I wasn't waiting up for you, you know," he says.

_Who are you kidding?_

"I wasn't," he insists.

_Why don't you give me my punishment so that I can get a head start on ignoring it?_

My uncle grunts. He likes to think he can decipher all my expressions, but he doesn't know how easy I make it on him. He doesn't see more than I want him to. No one does. No one looks hard enough because that would require special powers. Namely sensitivity.

As my warden strides over to the dining table, he says, "Matter of fact, I was reading." Rather than waste electricity, he lights a candle and tosses me a flat packet. "Have a look."

Puzzled, I pull out a stack of papers. My eyes scan the front page, then flip through the rest of the contents, confusion pinching my face and causing my nose to crinkle. There's a bunch of official-looking documents, letters addressed to Haymitch from some kind of student abroad organization.

A photo of a boy my age is clipped to the stack. My stomach swoops for no reason as I study him. He has blond hair and eyes that have dropped from the sky. His fresh face and light complexion don't belong anywhere near this island of olive-skinned locals. He's made of gold, and the rest of us may as well be made of coal.

I find a questionaire filled with handwritten answers, clearly from this boy. His penmanship is neat, stick-straight and angular. He probably lives a groomed life and makes his bed each morning.

I must be hallucinating because it's truly starting to smell like melted sugar everywhere.

I cover my trepidation with a cocky smirk of indifference and wiggle the papers at Haymitch. _And what is this supposed to be?_

"It's a relief, is what it is," he mutters. "I've got grief in one arm, and in the other, there's you bursting into uncontainable flames. This family needs a bright spot, Wild Child. Call it a change of pace. It'll be therapeutic for you and your mama to get your minds on something else."

_Please. You don't know my mind, and mama has lost hers._

"Bottom line, I'm not cutting it, and I don't have enough liquor to sustain another month of this."

_Then you shouldn't have brought us to live with you. I could have taken care of everything on my own._

Haymitch points at me. "Stop scowling. It's only for a year. He's an exchange student from District Twelve in North America—unless you're going to actually speak, close your mouth. And I said stop scowling. I know what you're thinking, but this is my house, no matter how many times you refuse to listen to me. Well, this is the deal: The boy'll be here next month when school starts. And don't argue about food. He's being sponsored, so that'll give us the funds to feed him."

This gets my attention. Resentment burns inside me that this boy can so easily provide for himself, that he comes from a nation where its citizens are fed. Meanwhile, the villagers in Panem are hungry, and children suffer from malnourishment because of it.

Haymitch has more to say. "And don't waste my time about the damn lack of space. The boy is bunking with me. "

Who said anything about lack of space? I'm not a queen. Most families on this island crowd into their homes, with multiple kids sleeping on the floor. In comparison, we have plenty of space.

Haymitch is still barking. "I pulled a lot of strings to get this for us. We're not exactly the ideal candidates for a host family, but it's done. You'll thank me later, so for the third and final time, curb the fucking scowl."

My index finger presses against the candle, and I calmly tip it over. Cursing, Haymitch stumbles forward and catches it before it hits the floor, hissing as the flame goes out and wax leaks onto his palm. "Jesus. Are you crazy?"

One small flame is nothing. It doesn't begin to compare with my level of crazy. I burden my uncle with a superior look, slick as water but rough as the tide. _I don't want your pity._

His posture droops. "Anger won't bring her back, Katniss. It's also not a good mood to swim with. It causes people to do things—self-destructive things they can't undo. Do you understand?"

I underestimated his perception, but I couldn't care less whether he suspects the real reason I went swimming. Without acknowledging him, I walk away, taking the papers with me as he issues a parting tip. "And about the wet nightgown. Do me a favor, and don't expose yourself like that in front of the boy. I know you, Wild Child."

As if the warning will do anything but provoke me.

Pure isn't an accurate enough word for what I used to be. Prude is better. Nakedness was a private thing for me until I lost my sister and gained Finnick, but that trait never made sense anyway. On our beaches, nudity is a way of life. And other more intimate things.

Mama once revealed while in the throes of despair over Papa—I lost him, too, when I was a little girl—that I'd been conceived in a secret cove. People can only get to it by boating or swimming. She reminisced about the event in detail, which I could have done without, but she no longer remembers telling me. She rarely remembers much.

Uncle Haymitch's "favor" is moot. I will dress, or _not_ dress, however I wish. If this boy from District Twelve—what kind of name is that for a country?—is uncomfortable and doesn't have the sense to look away, it's his own fault. It's not like he won't see bare bodies once he visits the ocean.

Anyway, Mama and I don't need Haymitch deciding what's best for us. I don't need some American boy to preoccupy me. I have Finnick for that.

I've had enough change to last a hundred lifetimes, and I shouldn't have to change a thing for this new boy. He'd better not expect me to or I will punch him. I will wrestle him to the ground, and I will win.

Closing the bedroom door behind me, I lean against the frame and draw a shaky breath. Mama is dreaming deeply, the mosquito net circling her narrow bed like a veil, making her resemble a fancy corpse. She never tosses or turns.

After lighting a candle, I pull back the net and kiss her forehead. I hate that she can sleep, but I'm happy that she can sleep. It's hard to say which feeling is greater.

Peeling off my soggy nightgown, I climb into my own bed and run a comb through my hair. Beads of sweat crowd between my breasts. It's a sweltering night, and I'm thirsty, but I don't want to waste drinking water.

Why did I bring the foreign exchange packet to bed with me?

I pour through it more slowly this time. What does this boy want here? What could he gain from spending a school year in a poor country? And isn't learning another language an important part of the whole thing? Everyone on Panem Island speaks English. Why would he choose a place that speaks the same language as his own?

The boy's photograph is ridiculous. No one should have a puppy smile and angular features at the same time and get away with it. His straight, white teeth suggest his family has a full refrigerator and a licensed dentist who doesn't trade his services for peacock meat. The boy's wearing a blue shirt—he's probably aware of what it does to his eyes. He's soft but sculpted. Not classically handsome like Finnick, but more unique and cute and innocent.

Innocent. I find myself anticipating the newcomer's shock when he first sets foot on the sand and sees more skin than he ever has in one place. I chuckle and then grit my teeth. _Shhh._

It's not right to laugh without her here. It isn't fair, but the boy made me do it.

His picture rips slightly as I whip to the next page. It's a short introduction to the organization, explaining how there's limited space each year, so they choose their students carefully based on applications, personal essays, and social gatherings. I guess this information is meant to reassure the host families. I'm certain that this boy was able to win his place quickly. He looks the type, self-aware of his charm and probably arrogant.

The questionnaire. It's for the host family to read. It looks like the boy had to fill it out after being accepted into the program.

_Name: Peeta Mellark._

I smirk. God. That name sounds like it came out of an oven, all fluffy and comforting.

_Q: Why are you coming to this country?_

_A: "I'm supposed to say for cultural enlightenment and expanding my horizons, right? Actually, I'm going for my dad. When he was a kid, he spent a year on Panem Island and said it was the happiest he's ever been. I want to know what he meant by that. He's told me some stuff, but I won't get it completely until I do it on my own. I'm not sure I'll get it. Not for sure. I hope I will. Hope is good place to start."_

I don't believe a word of it. Even though he's being casual, he's aiming to impress, and he's doing a fine job. But it's not real.

_"It's nice following in someone else's footsteps..."_

_"I'd like to see a sunset that doesn't belong to my side of the globe..."_

_"I can learn to swim in my country, but it's not..."_

He's very chatty. I scan the questions, pausing only for the ones that catch my eyes.

_Q: What is your favorite food?_

_A: "Bread."_

Finally, a one-word response. That he has the luxury of even having a favorite food makes me detest him.

_Q: What will you miss most when you leave home?_

_A: "Well, now that's an impossible question to answer. I honestly can't choose one thing. I don't know if anyone could."_

I could.

_"There are lots of ways to miss your life. People, places, the things you like to do..." _

Here he goes rambling again. My thumb begins to stroke his answer, but I stop myself when I realize what I'm doing.

_"What I'll miss the most are my family's bakery, my dad, and my girlfriend."_

Bakery. His life is made of food.

Another mention of his father. What about his mother?

I glance over at Mama and feel a pang. Then I glance back at the boy's handwriting and suddenly feel calm.

His girlfriend. Of course he has one, or two, or three. I wonder if she has eyes like his and if they will have a romantic farewell under the stars, with unrealistic promises and tokens of affection. And lovemaking.

The candle flicks a balmy orange glow on the wall. Mosquitoes bounce around, droning like mad while pursuing the light. I'm sticky and gray-eyed and inexplicably sad by what I've read. Sad makes me confused. Confused makes me furious. Furious makes me frustrated.

Frustrated becomes a tightness between my legs. Squirming doesn't help, nor does the wet air. I run my hands up my thighs and imagine him saying goodbye to his girlfriend, then the scene melts into another one of him saying hello to me, gazing at my nightgown, curious about everything underneath. I have his attention, and it feels so good. In my fantasy, I corrupt his boyish face and fill us both with longing, and for a moment, I'm all that exists in someone's life. I'm truly wanted. I'm loved again.

He's moving on me. I'm moving on him.

He shows me how deep I truly am. How loud I can be if I allow myself.

The gasp I release is startling and brings me back to earth. One of my fingers has found its way inside me. I'm outraged by the discovery, the almost-noise that slipped from my lips.

Without hesitation, I carry the papers over to the candle and stick them into the flame, watching as it drags across his photo, his thoughts, his very existence. The leaflets darken and curl and disappear.

Peeta Mellark's not even here yet, but already I've burned him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Peeta_

I swear you can't catch a break from the beauty here. As the taxi winds through a cliff road, I gawk at the bleached white sand and blue water below. The waterfalls...the coves scattered across the coastline...and the small crescent-shaped islands in the distance.

It's overwhelming. Touristy questions bottleneck in my head, but I have no one to ask because I'm pretty sure it was my talking that put Mr. Abernathy to sleep. He's slumped next to me in the back of the car, his arm slung over his eyes and his mouth a wide-open chasm.

On the way from the airport, he asked me how my flight was, and sometime between my play-by-play of the turbulence and recapping the pilot's sightseeing announcements, Mr. Abernathy began to snore. It wasn't until I glanced at the clock on the cab's center console that I realized I'd been babbling for twenty minutes straight.

My dad says that I'm the least quiet person on the planet, but he understands. We both like to joke and connect with people, which maybe stems from us being bakers. And I guess it's because—

A pair of flapping birds cuts in front of us. The cab jerks to the opposite side of the road to avoid hitting them, and Mr. Abernathy—Haymitch—wakes with a growl while the driver curses in frustration. The birds have vermilion-colored feathers. I practically smash my nose up against the window to catch another glimpse of them before they disappear.

"Mockingjays," Haymitch mutters, sitting up and wiping his eyes. "Symbolic of the island. They're as hyper and oblivious as toddlers but more appealing than jabberjays—now those are dangerous little fuckers. You get offended by foul language, American boy?"

"Um. No."

"Alcohol?"

"No."

"Titties?"

"Uh…"

"Of course you don't. You're sixteen. You don't get offended by anything with titties."

He and the driver cackle as though they frequent the same strip club or something. Embarrassed, I shift in my seat.

Haymitch slaps me hard on the back. "Well then, welcome to paradise, boy. Don't worry about local predators. Your whiteness is—you okay?"

"Yes," I croak.

"Your whiteness is a rare delicacy here, but only a few of the snakes and bugs are poisonous, so the odds are in your favor."

He has officially succeeded in shutting me up. If the rest of my host family is anything like him, I have no clue how they made the cut with my exchange organization. I also have no clue why the family wanted an exchange student in the first place. This man isn't exactly the fatherly type.

Usually students get pictures and messages from their host family before the year starts, but the Abernathy-Everdeens didn't send me anything. I learned early on from the organization that the family doesn't own a camera. Or a computer. Or a flat screen, or any television for that matter. The majority of the islanders don't.

"So what do you do in District Twelve besides hustle bagels and baguettes?" asks Haymitch.

The question actually makes me chuckle. I relax a bit, rubbing the back of my neck. "I draw. I take photographs. I'm on the wrestling team and Student Council and also the debate team. I like to—"

"Model child, eh?"

Not according to my mother. No matter what I do.

"In the questionnaire, you said you got a sweetheart back home," Haymitch prompts.

My heart twists. "Her name's Madge."

I miss her already.

"Peeta and Madge. Madge and Peeta," Haymitch sings. "How are Madge and Peeta going to last not seeing each other for a year?"

It's September. I'll be here without her until July. I reach for the chain hanging around my neck, rubbing the silver _M_ charm between my fingers. Madge has the same necklace, only with the letter _P_. We bought them before I left home.

I remember her red-rimmed eyes at the airport, her lips trembling as we kissed, her meager attempt to smile. "I'll wait for you," she said.

"Me too," I said.

I think of the note she slipped into my jeans before I boarded the plane. She told me to read it during takeoff. I did, and every once in while I read it again to keep her close.

_I love you._

That's what she wrote. In the six months we've been together, we've never said those words to each other, but her confession makes me smile. We're perfect as a couple. We have the same friends, the same overachieving goals, and we like to do the same things, and she wants me, willingly opening her arms whenever I'm near. I love her, too.

Haymitch isn't bothered that I haven't answered him. He's too busy frowning out the window as we reach a public area that looks to be a town square at the bottom of the hill, with farmer's market-style stalls and huts. They're all scattered around a squat, official looking building—kind of like a mission—painted in a light orange shade that reminds me of apricots.

A crowd is blocking the main road, which gets on the driver's nerves. He honks the horn, but no one moves.

An oddly knowing glare warps Haymitch's profile. He rolls down the window, letting in a blast of muggy air, not unlike the kind in my family's bakery. He leans half his body out the window, swatting his arm out and hollering, "Darius! Thom! Cray!"

I crane my head to check out what's going on, but all I can see are a bunch of wandering heads, a woman lugging a basket of burlap dolls, and someone else carrying…is that a lemur in that crate?

A guy approaches us and mumbles something to Haymitch that pisses him off. "Dammit, Katniss!" he barks, dropping back into his seat only to shove open his door a second later. I watch dumbly as he gets out of the taxi, then leans over and curls his finger at me. "Let's go, boy. Don't worry about your luggage. We're coming right back."

My passport is in this car. My personal memorabilia is in this car. My first edition _Extremely Compact Oxford English Dictionary_ is in this car.

I get out while asking, "Who's Katniss?"

Haymitch ignores me, striding through the chaos while I scramble to match his pace. As more people notice us, the whispers and stares increase. Everyone looks at Haymitch with an eclectic mixture of sympathy, weariness, and amusement. They study me like I'm another species.

An older woman who smells like a hard day's work hustles toward us, her face wrinkled with agitation. "Aye, Haymitch. I'm glad you're here," she says. "I couldn't stop her. I tried, but she wouldn't listen to me—"

"It's all right, Sae," Haymitch answers, framing her shoulders to calm her down. I didn't think him capable of being kindhearted and soft-spoken. It gives me hope.

"Don't be mad at her," pleads the woman named Sae. "Katniss is just a sad girl. She means well."

"Who's Katniss?" I repeat.

They both turn toward me, unsettled and unsure how to answer, as if I've forgotten my manners and said something intrusive and they don't know whether I'm telling a bad joke. I might as well have asked who farted.

Haymitch sighs. "Sorry, boy. We aren't used to people _not_ knowing her." He looks around for the source of the crowd and then points. "See that she-devil over there? That's her."

My gaze travels the length of his arm, then his finger, then across the square and lands on a girl. The sight of her steals my breath. She's leaning her whole body against a giant statue of a mockingjay. Her arms are stretched out to the sides like wings that have been pinned there for display. Her head also lolls to the side, giving the impression that she's patient and resigned, but I can tell that she's tired. Really tired.

She has full lips, generous cheeks, and her dark hair falls loosely around her shoulders. She's wearing a long skirt that swipes at the dirt and hangs low on her hips, and her top looks like a corset that's been shortened to reveal her stomach. She's a mirage, like no matter how close I try to get she'll recede. As though she's not real.

Maybe she isn't. I have to be seeing things because those can't actually be handcuffs clamped to her wrists, can they?

A chain made of small links is wrapped around the mockingjay statue, and she's tethered to the ends of them, trapped there like some kind of antiquated, timeworn puppet. I twist my head in all directions, scoping out each face. Who's done this to her? Why isn't anyone helping her?

"It's not what you think, boy," Haymitch says. "She's not being harmed. She's protesting."

I gape. "She's what?"

Haymitch doesn't answer. He scrubs the stubble on his jaw and storms toward the girl, stopping close enough to block her completely from me. He bends his head and grunts a bunch of things at her. "Where's the key?...This isn't a game...Did Finnick help you with this?...Jo or Tigris?...Who the hell do you think you're fooling?...I said, where's the goddamn key?...Tell me _right now_."

He gets silence in response.

"You're the boy from America. Peeta, yes?" The woman named Sae appraises me, then nods toward the scene and whispers, "She's not a bad girl. She really isn't. Panem raised the cost of fishing permits, and my god, they now cost a fortune. Katniss can't contain herself when it comes to anything that makes people go hungry. She wants the fee to go back down, and if we don't get that, that child won't budge until the mockingjays reach mating season."

Amazement replaces bewilderment. I've done charity work, watched my friends pass out flyers and make campus speeches for righteous causes, but I've never seen anyone my age take this kind of leap. It's—

"Pointless," Sae sighs. "This is pointless."

I feel more defensive than I should. "She's standing up for something."

"Oh, dear boy. She's _Katniss_. No one will take her seriously. They're only going to pity her because—" She stops herself from finishing.

What was she going to say? Pity the girl for what?

Sae bobs a lecturing finger. "Haymitch has told her many times: The way to get people to listen is to get them to like you, not make them angry. Look at Cray." She nods to an officer who's prowling back and forth, glaring at Katniss and Haymitch.

"This won't help any of us," Sae confides. "She's antagonizing Cray and distracting him from true criminals. He's waiting for a locksmith so he doesn't have to deal with her. This isn't…" She flattens her palms together as if in prayer and sets them against the tip of her nose. "Well, we can't blame her."

I'm confused about Haymitch's involvement in this. I sidestep Sae to get a decent view of the spectacle. Villagers shuffle their feet and watch in anticipation. Most of them are adults, but there are a few kids my age. They chuckle and smirk, but Katniss doesn't seem to care. In fact, she winks at them like they're allies—two girls in particular, one with spiky hair and the other with feline features.

Haymitch keeps up the interrogation. Katniss turns away in disinterest, and those eyes of hers lock onto mine. And they don't look away.

I want to run in the opposite direction. I want to go home.

Which is why it makes no sense when I head toward. Sae's hand reaches out to stop me. "Aye Peeta, that's not a good idea," she cautions.

It comes out automatically. "Haymitch needs help."

It's none of my business, and people might look at me like some foreigner who's butting his nose in, who's got no clue what's going on. But I'm in a new place, I'm buzzed on culture shock, and I might be coming down with something from the plane. I want to get back to the cab before the driver finds an alternate route out of this mess and then speeds off with my duffle bags—one of which contains my favorite baking apron.

And the man who's going to be my host father is surrounded by anxious faces.

And a girl named Katniss is chained up.

I can't just stand here.

After a moment's thought, Sae reluctantly lets me go. "All right, but Katniss doesn't speak, dear, so don't take it personally if she doesn't answer you."

She's incapable of speaking or she holds back by choice? Is the latter humanly possible? Who has that kind of willpower?

"She refuses to," Sae clarifies.

I'm more disappointed than surprised.

Katniss glares when she sees me threading through the crowd. She's a bird of prey, primed to capture me by the neck and swoop into the air with my limp body.

That could be glorious.

God, the tropical air must be spiked with something.

Haymitch swings around to see what Katniss is looking at. His eyes narrow in my direction. He meets me halfway and holds up his palms. "Don't get any ideas, boy."

"Like you've been making any progress? She's still in handcuffs."

"You don't know her."

"But you do, and that's not working either. You're snarling at her like she's a miscreant."

"A what?"

"A noun meaning a vicious or depraved person. The archaic definition would be a heretic or infidel."

"Boy, you got a tedious way of saying _very, very bad person_."

"No one else is lifting a finger. She's burned these people out, including that officer guy—that's what Sae said anyway, so maybe the girl needs someone who's not from around here. In Student Council, they encourage us to—"

"Oh, for crap's sake! Go ahead. This was part of the deal anyway," Haymitch mutters.

Unsure what he means by that, I open my mouth, but Haymitch strides past me and marches through the crush, disappearing—he's got to be joking!—into a cantina.

Everyone turns my way. The elderly faces. The young faces. The high school faces. The two allies who seem to know Katniss scan me from head to toe, one with unbridled curiosity, the other with distaste.

What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?

Approaching the mockingjay statue, I comb my hands through my hair and smooth over my shirt. Katniss watches all of this with an intense expression. It's either cheekiness or wrath. I have trouble deciding whether she wants to bait me or beat the hell out of me—and I wonder what I did to deserve either reaction.

As I stop in front of her, the inebriating scent of orchids swarms my olfactory system. We use a lot of imported orchids to decorate the cakes back home, but from this girl the aroma is infinitely more provocative. Up close, I discover that one of her dark locks is woven into a thin braid. My gaze traces the hourglass of her body. Her skirt billows in the breeze and taps my calf, warning me to snap out of it.

I clear my throat to the point where it sounds like I'm hacking. "It's Katniss, right?"

She stares at me. Her eyes are gray.

"I'm Peeta. My name's Peeta. You can call me, um, that. You can call me Peeta."

Or she can call me redundant.

I remember my manners, rub my palms against my jeans, and hold out my hand. Katniss quirks an eyebrow. I can almost hear her saying, _What am I supposed to do with that?_

A half-sigh, half-laugh tumbles out of my mouth. I'm certifiably stupid. She can't shake my hand if she's handcuffed.

Her stoicism is unnerving. If I don't make a dent in it, it's going to suck the marrow right out of my confidence.

"I once locked myself to my bike in protest," I blurt out.

Her, a bird of prey. Me, the helpless victim.

"I-I was ten. I was growing out of the bike, but then my parents said that it was too old and rusty to pass onto another kid. You know, someone who could use it."

She keeps staring.

"And I was sentimental, so if we weren't going to pass the bike on, why would I get rid of a relic? So I slipped my wrist through a giant padlock set around the frame...although I guess it wasn't really a protest. More like an objection."

Yeah. Still staring.

"And I guess you've been here longer than twenty min—how long have you been here?"

No answer. Of course, no answer. It was a lame anecdote anyway.

I struggle to keep my brain-to-mouth filter intact. "So you're an activist? That's, uh, commendable—cool, I mean. That's cool. Do you fish? Haymitch said you're doing this because of fishing."

The more I talk, the more focused she becomes on my mouth. And the more focused she becomes on my mouth, the more I suffer. But there's something about the way her wrists sag in the iron cuffs, how red and raw her skin is. I don't know. She's tough everywhere except there.

"Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

My voice is embarrassingly concerned. It gets her attention. She tips her chin back, eyeing me distrustfully. I could have been speaking in a different language, she seems so unaccustomed to the questions. It really hits me that I'll never get to hear her voice.

But again, I can almost hear her anyway.

_Why do you care?_

"You just…you look so sad."

It's like a curtain gets yanked to the side. The scowl disappears altogether, and her eyes fog with pain. There's a moment, a legitimate moment when we stare at each other, hiding nothing.

Too soon her features turn to granite again, and the hostility returns, even worse than before. At this point, I feel like I'm talking to dynamite.

I murmur, "Look, there's a better way to do this."

She sets her jaw.

"My father always said—"

The jaw loosens on the word _father_.

"My father always said that doing things together makes more of a difference than doing things alone."

Her expression is doubtful.

"Look around you. I'm not from here, but it seems to me that you're not the only one affected by hunger issues."

_How would you know?_

"Well, I'm not as different as I look. And if I'm right, which I kinda think I am, this isn't just about you. I don't think anyone here disagrees with you, but what you're doing? It doesn't help the cause if you isolate everyone else. It's about figuring out a way together. Is there a person who makes you feel stronger when they stand beside you?"

Another flash of pain.

"A group is louder than one person. The way people look at you, I think you can inspire them. You can spark something—if you stop thinking about yourself so much. Just ask yourself, who else are you doing this for?"

Her silver gaze falls to the ground. I have the feeling she's latched onto a particular face.

Drawing a breath, she gives a curt nod. _Okay._

At least I think that's what she means. But there's some kind of condition attached to that nod, like,_ You win. For now._

I'll take what I can get. "Soooo, um, the key?"

Her sudden errant gleam takes me off guard. Slowly, suggestively, her head dips at an angle and her eyes travel down, down, down to…

Her skirt. It's somewhere hidden under her skirt. I'm supposed to slip my hands beneath her skirt.

Katniss waits with a dare on her face. We're surrounded, and my palms are melting, but I've got no choice. Ever so slightly, she sways her hips from side to side.

_Come and get it, American boy._

I'm unprepared for _Come and get it_. And if I do come and get it, will that be considered sexual harassment? Is my exchange organization going to boot me back home afterward?

I square my shoulders. My hand reaches out and pauses on the waistband of the skirt. She's cool as ever, but I'm a wreck as my fingers disappear past the elastic. Female chuckles dance somewhere behind me. A bunch of gasps and disapproving mumbles ricochet through the crowd.

My knuckles drag across her abdomen, slide over a pulse point and then breach forbidden girl territory in the form of lace-trimmed panties. My mind conjures up possible prints and shades. The air is even more humid down there, thick enough to swallow with a spoon.

The tip of my index finger locates the hard surface of the key. Its teeth are poking out of her underwear, near her bony hip. I yank out the key and unlock the handcuffs in record time.

Katniss stumbles forward. I catch her, but the instant she's steady on her feet, I rear back. The crowd exhales and claps, that Cray officer sputters into his walkie-talkie, and Haymitch materializes on the fringes, a cork lodged between his incisors. When he sees us, the cork shoots out of his mouth.

He stalks up to us and studies me like he just can't believe it. Then he chuckles. "Boy, you must be a wordsmith." He rounds on Katniss. "Don't you aim those daggers at me, Wild Child. Just because I lost my patience doesn't mean I lost my nuts along the way. You could have been arrested or fined. When we get home, I oughta use those handcuffs and shackle you to the roof!"

I freeze. The words _we_ and _home_ are red lights flashing in my head.

"Peeta." Haymitch swings an arm toward Katniss. "This, unfortunately, is my niece."

The ground tilts beneath my feet. Katniss is his niece. She's part of my host family, and when I add the word _home_ into the equation, I get it. I'm going to be living with her in the same house. For a year.

My fingers, which lingered in private places a few minutes ago, seek out the _M_ charm dangling from around my neck. Katniss and I had shared one real moment, when my words had meaning to her, but then she'd reduced that moment to a joke and a mortifyingly public encounter with her skirt.

To be fair, it wasn't like she planned it. It's not like she expected me to be the Chosen One to chart the nether regions of her panties. It could have been Haymitch. It could have been Cray. It could have been anyone.

Whatever. She still enjoyed the effect it had on me. I'm perplexed, jetlagged, and offended by the whole thing. What's more, I don't like her.

But I can be polite. Offering her a smile, I hold out my hand for the second time. "Nice to meet you, Katniss."

Her eyes travel up and down my frame. Her own hand twitches, her fingers splaying outward and then shrinking back in line, remaining at her side. She turns her back on me and sashays toward our idling cab.

My untouched hand hovers in the air.

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**I'm at andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the delay on this guys. I know you're used to much faster postings from me, but I've got a few writing things coming up, so updates might not be as regular as I'd hoped. Even though a good amount of this story is complete, there's still proofreading and polishing to do. But I will try my best :)**

**Happy CF premiere day!**

* * *

_Peeta_

My least favorite thing in the world is an awkward silence. Katniss is the embodiment of that. There's plenty of noise in the cab, but none of it is coming from her. I'm hyperaware of her presence and sealed lips.

Throughout the ride, my attention is torn. There's the driver's thumbs tapping the steering wheel, matching the rhythm of a Spanish guitar that loops from the speakers. And Haymitch's second round of snoring. And the breeze whipping against my face.

And the quiet girl riding shotgun. I'm in the back, directly behind her, with a view of her profile in the side mirror. At this angle, the light emphasizes her chapped lips and the freckles crowding her nose. A rogue tendril of hair beats against her cheek.

No one would call her beautiful. Everyone would call her sexy.

Each part of her feels invasive. Her legs are stretched across the vehicle, olive-skinned feet propped on the dashboard and crossed at the ankles like she owns this car. She has a high arch that reminds me of a water-slide, and her toenails are painted a balloon orange color. I wonder if her feet are ticklish like Madge's. I have a thing for feet, but my girlfriend hates when I touch hers.

My gaze flits to the side mirror again and finds a pair of magnetic gray eyes staring back at me. I glance away quickly, but I still feel her attention on me.

The driver turns up the volume, filling the taxi with pounding percussions and thrashing maracas. I've never listened to this kind of music before. It's flirtatious and energetic at the same time, and for some reason it fits to everyone's accent here, a slight but zesty Panem Island lilt that one could probably dance to. I chance another look and am relieved that Katniss is no longer interested in me. She's swaying her body to the song, and the driver joins in. It's playful, the way they synchronize their movements, shoulders thumping from side-to-side, him chuckling and a festive glint reaching her eyes. It's like watching a candid scene through a lens. It would make an amazing photograph.

I don't realize that I'm smiling until Katniss catches me in the act. Again, I look away. This girl's a crappy hostess. She doesn't have to like me—the feeling is mutual—but she could at least make me feel welcome.

_Someone_ should make me feel welcome. Dad said that studying abroad was one of the best years of his life. I'm hopeful that my year will be the same, but I've already caught myself nibbling on my fingernails twice in agitation.

Before I came here, I had visions of what it would be like when I arrived. My host family would pick me up as one big group at the airport. They would be carrying flowers for me or a homemade "Welcome" sign or some other traditional island offering. Then they would gather me into an overwhelming and slightly humiliating communal hug while I tried not to throw up from nerves.

On the way home, they would point out the all sights and list off historical facts about Panem. They would dazzle me with culturally wise sayings that I'd be sure to carry into adulthood. The mother would be motherly. The father would be a rugged, sunburned character who couldn't wait to take me fishing. If I had a little host brother, he would ask for wrestling lessons. If I had an older host brother, he would talk nonstop about girls and insist on getting me a tattoo.

The family would ask me about myself. They would laugh at my winning jokes. They'd be happy I was here.

They would talk to me.

I may have embellished my expectations. This is what I get the one time I let my imagination divert from reality.

Two miles later, the driver's rum breath has become more apparent. Katniss stretches her arm out the window and pretends her flat palm is an airplane riding the wind. She blows kisses at an old man driving a mule cart. A group of teens in bikinis and board shorts call her name as we go by, and Katniss issues a funny, three-fingered salute to them.

The cab swerves onto a dirt road, weaving through a cluster of thatched dwellings that make up another village. Laundry lines hang in the yards. At one home, a pair of bare-footed children chase each other through flapping white sheets while a goat bleats from a pen. At another home, an elderly man plays guitar on his front porch.

When we pull in front of the house, my mouth falls open. Because it's not a house. It's a cottage.

And it's tiny.

It's painted a spicy paprika shade and hedged by tropical flowers.

And it's tiny.

After meeting Haymitch and Katniss, I expected a lopsided mailbox and weathered roof, possibly broken windows, basically general destruction. I'm glad to be wrong. It looks like someone takes care of this place.

It's got a porch like the other cottages. A seashell wind chime dangles by the door.

And it's tiny.

How do the Abernathy-Everdeens fit in there?

My throat flares. I should have traveled lighter instead of bringing that extra duffle bag. It's going to look like I own a ton of stuff, more than this entire family.

Katniss unbuckles her seatbelt, twists around, and whacks Haymitch's thigh. He jolts awake and damns God almighty.

Katniss bumps fists with the driver, whose eyes bluntly rate her ass a 9.0 while she slips out of the taxi. I can't say I blame him with the way the skirt stretches over her curves. But still, it bothers me. Her uncle's right here in the car, but the rude driver fails to disguise his interest.

Haymitch thrusts a wrinkled bill in the man's face. To my host father's credit, it does the trick getting the driver's attention and making him flush.

"I deducted five for the look," Haymitch says.

I admire the warning tone in his voice. It's the same one Coach uses on teammates treading a thin line with him. It demands respect.

The minute I follow Haymitch out of the taxi, I unleash a reflexive, "Whoa."

The heat may be mean, the cottage's size definitely shocks me, but the direct view of the ocean wipes all that away. Straight ahead, beyond another twisting road crammed with bright flowers and plants, is a slice of the coastline. The sea glitters a short walk away, and I hear the faint echo of the surf.

The sky is a watery gradient of late afternoon colors with splashes of purple and pink. I'm glad I brought my sketchpad and chalk with me.

"Boy, if your mouth drops any further, we'll have to scrape it off the ground," Haymitch remarks.

The taxi's gone, and Haymitch has collected my luggage, but I've been too busy marveling to notice. I could have been drooling for all I know.

Haymitch isn't the only one observing me. Katniss lingers by the porch, head slanted in my direction, her eyes rooting me in place.

_"Mreeooww."_

The cat breaks the moment. It slinks out of a bush, all stick legs and golden fur. It winds itself around my calf, purring contentedly. I would lean down and pet it, but the way Katniss's cheeks color as she scrutinizes me and the feline makes me rethink that.

The cat hisses at Katniss. Her forehead crinkles as if the animal's hostility hurts her feelings, but she recovers fast. She hisses back and then struts to the door, her thin braid bouncing against the rest of her loose hair. Opening the screen door, she pauses and tosses me another Sphinx-like glance. Her fingers glide over the frame, giving me one more quick view of her wrist, red from the handcuffs, before she disappears into the house.

I stare at the empty porch before remembering that Haymitch is standing next to me. He probably thinks I've never seen a sunset before, with the way I was ogling it. I force a chuckle and gesture at the sky. "Guess you guys are used to this, huh?"

He shrugs. "Hell, boy. It's nice to be reminded of what we got. Some of us—" He jerks his head toward the house "—are so focused on what we don't got."

I hate just letting subjects drop, but I'm not feeling up to asking what he means. It's too much in one day. I haven't even unpacked my toothbrush yet.

"The sunsets in District Twelve aren't like this," I say. "They're more white-orange—or cold orange. They don't have all these warm colors like here. I've seen skies like this in movies and photographs, but it's different actually looking at the real thing. My dad talked about it, and he wasn't exaggerating, but I couldn't have guessed it'd be this radiant. You see how the shades are changing so fast? Back home, the sky doesn't do that. Except for this one time, when I was a sophomore—"

"Let's go inside." Haymitch pats the back of my neck and steers me toward the house.

kpkpkpkpkp

The main rooms are joined—living room and dining room together, with an open kitchen neighboring them. That's where I'm greeted by a soft silhouette and a pair of frail hands folded over an oversized dress.

An older woman stands beside the oven, head cocked to the side, her eyes washing over me. Except I'm not really sure if she sees me. Her expression is sort of dull, half present even though she's waiting for an introduction.

She regards Haymitch with such a dependent expression, and he returns it with a caring look of his own, so different from the man I met at the airport. "Violet," he says, setting a hand on her shoulder. "This is Peeta. The boy I told you about, remember?" He glances at me. "Peeta? This is my sister, Violet."

Violet. Katniss's mother. They have same slanted eyebrows, the same petite bodies, and the same mouths.

I grin and hold out my hand. "Thank you for having me. Haymitch told me a lot about you," I lie smoothly. "He didn't say enough, though."

From the corner of my eye, I notice Haymitch blinking. But Violet—my host mother, I guess—well, her answering smile is shy and underused.

Unlike her daughter, she shakes my hand. "I'm cooking."

She seems proud of this statement, so I widen my grin. "I'm hungry."

"I hope we have enough food for you." The spot between her brows wrinkles. "You have strong arms for a short boy. You're built like a chimpanzee."

Heat creeps up my throat. Haymitch stifles a laugh.

Something's boiling in a pot on the stove. I'm unsettled by how little prep space there is and how crammed together the burners are. There's no microwave or dishwasher, but the familiar cast iron pans and manual grain mill are a relief, basically lifelines to remind me of home.

Violet glances nervously at the pot, and Haymitch takes that as a signal to leave. He guides me away while confiding, "She enjoys making the meals. It's…" He gestures aimlessly, looking for the right word. "It's relaxing for her. And don't worry about those muscles, boy. What you get on your plate'll be enough. It won't be salmon every night, but we eat more decent than most people on this island."

That, and I've got a sponsor paying for me. Neither of us brings that up.

Curtains billow from the windows in the living room. My organization wasn't joking. There's not much in the way of entertainment, though I'm grateful to see the family has a cordless phone and an old stereo—which appear to be luxuries in this place—and a chess game set up on a fold-out tray in the corner.

Haymitch mumbles as we walk through the house. "Couch for sitting. Table for eating. The Situation Chair for when I pass judgment on misbehavior—don't do anything to push me there. This is the hallway. The girls' bedroom. Bathroom for you-know-what." He gestures at a closed door where a shadow passes beneath the slit at the bottom.

The shadow has to belong to Katniss. I hear water running and wonder if she's cleaning her wrists.

"Here's where we sleep," Haymitch finishes, ushering me into the second bedroom where he drops my bags on the floor.

I do a stellar job masking my apprehension. I've got no problem sharing, but I'm wary about sharing with this man in particular. He snores. Big time. And he's not going to like finding out that I talk in my sleep.

The room has a bunk bed. I can't help smirking when I think of Haymitch trying to climb to the top.

"Don't go getting ideas, boy," he warns. "I had to trade my old bed for this thing, so I got first choice. I know it's not what you're used to."

"I didn't come here for what I'm used to," I say.

"Good," he says. "Because you're getting top bunk."

I laugh. "Are you afraid of heights?"

Creases form at the corners of his eyes. "Afraid of falling on my ass is more like it. C'mon. Let's go eat. You can mess up the room later."

Dinner is rice, some sort of pepper, and some kind of white fish. We're drinking from a gallon-sized plastic water bottle—the glasses are half full—because apparently it's not safe to drink from the tap.

My host mother still has a distanced look about her, but she's kind, and I'm starving. I relax into my chair.

Katniss appears around the corner, which immediately makes me straighten up again. Her skirt whips around her legs as she plops down next to her mother and begins to serve her.

Accepting her plate, Violet says, "Thank you, Primrose."

It's like the roof caved in. Katniss freezes. Haymitch grimaces.

It doesn't take a genius to know that asking who Primrose is would be a bad idea.

Violet doesn't seem to register that she's said anything upsetting. Katniss sucks her lips in tight, inhaling through her nostrils and curtailing her response while she moves on, filling her own plate. Haymitch checks my reaction, but I pretend to be oblivious.

Everyone becomes fixated on their food and digs in. Foreign spices snap across my tongue. The fish is a little too oily, but it melts down my throat.

The quiet is light years away from the hysteria at the Mellark family table. By now, my brothers and I are usually throwing napkin bombs at each other. Dad is smuggling scraps to our bulldog under the table. Mom is complaining about either life or me or both.

I feel bad for comparing. To make up for it, I do everything my host family does, placing my knife and fork at the exact same angles as them, drinking when they drink.

But should I wait for them to start a conversation? Should I compliment the food before I'm finished or after?

Katniss refuses to spare me a glance. I'm drawn to the way her lips move as she chews.

But then she stops. It's like she knows where my attention is.

Her gaze lifts, crosses the table, and latches onto me. I reflexively stuff the pepper into my mouth.

Her eyes widen and then twinkle right as a fireball detonates in my mouth. My own eyes hold hers, but I feel my lids pulling back in shock and my tear ducts getting ready to spill as lava floods my throat. My gums and forehead and nasal passages are scorching and just holy shit!

"How is it?" my host mother asks.

Holyfuckingshiteatingfuckinghotburningshit—

"Really good," I squeak.

"Pace yourself with the pepper, boy," Haymitch cautions around a full mouth. He leans close and whispers the rest. "It'll burn your ball-hair off."

My hand shakes as I grasp for the water. I down it in one gulp, but it's not enough to stop the pepper from incinerating my very soul.

Another glass skates toward me, inched forward by a single olive finger. I want to thank her, but Katniss is focused on her meal, so I empty her glass in seconds and blow snot into my napkin. I bat my lashes until I'm sure that I'm not going to weep from the assault.

I need to get my mind off the heat. I need words. "I-I could help with the cooking," I stutter. "I-I do it at home, but I'd like to learn something new."

Violet fidgets with her spoon. "Oh, I…I don't know. There's not much to learn."

"There's always something to learn. Mixing tastes. Preparing…" Breathing. Inhaling. Exhaling. "Storing. Preserving. Making food last."

Katniss swings her chin up. _What would you know about making food last?_

My perked ears detect the rancor in her question, and what's more, it's annoying. If there's one thing I won't let this girl judge, it's my relationship to food.

I slide her empty water glass back to its original spot beside her plate. "When I was little, and my family started the bakery, we used to live off stale bread."

Her face falls magnificently.

"It wasn't until I was twelve that we started getting regular customers and making money," I continue. "Mellarks bakes good bread, but we're mostly lucky. But even before that, we donated whatever we could to soup kitchens. My dad says no matter how little you have, there's always something left to share. Some hope to give." I pause to think about it. "I would say, when there's not as much to eat is when we learn the most about food. Also, my mouth is on fire, so I need a crash course on your spices quick."

I've been speaking to everyone, but now I speak only to Katniss. "And one more thing? My family lives fine, but we're not rolling in _that_ kind of dough. I'm not being sponsored for fun. Just in case that's what you thought."

The phrases _crash course_ and the double entendre of _dough _all seem lost on them, which must be a cultural thing, though they seem to understand what I mean anyway. Haymitch reclines in his chair as if my words have pushed him. Violet exhibits her first lucid expression. She smiles at me in admiration. And Katniss…

Katniss does not look happy about that.

kpkpkpkpkp

Violet goes to bed, murmuring something about a headache. Haymitch works the night shift at the cantina back in the village square, and since this family doesn't have a car, he walks the two miles every day, then gets rides home from another one of the bartenders that he's friends with.

Left alone, I panic. It hits me that this house isn't mine. I have no idea how to behave. What's off limits? Can I use the oven to bake? Do I have to ask for food every time I get hungry?

I mentally criticize my duffle bags, split open and revealing my possessions. I see myself for the first time through other people's eyes—all the superfluous things that I thought I couldn't part with but now feel spoiled for bringing.

What do I need my Letterman jacket for? It's eighty percent humidity outside.

Sighing, I decide to leave it in the luggage, along with my dictionary. I'm selective, pulling out clothes, drawing tools, and framed pictures of my dad and Madge. The gut-wrencher is, I'm iPodless, phoneless, and laptopless. I have to adapt to my host family's lifestyle, and since they don't own modern devices, my exchange organization advised me not to bring any. Well, except for my camera, a vintage model that used to belong to Dad.

There's a couple of woven baskets under the bunk bed for me to store my belongings, a narrow stand-up closet that holds maybe ten shirts, and a chest at the foot of the bed.

Haymitch and I agreed: I get the closet, he gets the chest. I hang what I can, then pile the rest of my clothes into the baskets. I stash my art supplies, exchange organization packet, and notebooks for school in the empty nightstand.

My picture frames find a home beside the lamp. I sink onto the bottom bunk and stare at the images. My dad has his arm around me in the bakery, and we're holding up the first loaf I ever baked for a customer.

In the second photo, Madge is sitting on the floor of her bedroom, legs crossed, cheek balanced in her palm as she smiles at me. I remember taking that photo with my phone. We'd just officially gotten together the night before. I'd prepared a speech asking her to be my girlfriend, but by the third memorized page, she cut me off with a kiss. I like to think she did that because my words swept her away.

She burst into tears when she found out that we'd only be able to communicate through handwritten letters. "But my handwriting's terrible," she cried into my chest while I held her, promised we'd be okay with just the letters, and explained how romantic it would be.

I was told that my new school has a computer lab. I didn't want to get Madge's hopes up, so I didn't tell her about it, but maybe I'll be allowed to email her from there. Maybe I can surprise her.

The door to the room swings open, dragging me from the memory. I swerve around, surprised because I thought Haymitch had already left for work. I open my mouth.

It stays open.

Katniss has just walked in. And she's naked. Completely, totally naked.

I see legs. I see breasts. I see a triangle of hair.

I see stars.

Dark nipples swell from centers of her tits. There's a lighter patch of skin, a birthmark that's like an island itself, on her inner thigh.

My whole body reacts at the sight of her. My pulse races, and I think my lungs have collapsed. My head turns, following her as she saunters toward the closet, her hips rotating, her feet padding across the wood floor. She casts me a sidelong glance on her way.

Reflexes and common decency should have kicked in. I should have turned away politely, gentlemanly, not gawked at her like a pig. I should turn away _now_. Right _now_.

When she reaches the closet, I see the slope of her back. And an ass. A round ass that curves into her waist. She's thinner she should be, but she still has plenty to show off.

Hangers knock together as she searches through my wardrobe. She chooses one of my new shirts, a white linen button-down that my dad said would fit to the landscape and my brothers said was gay. She pulls it over her head and then fluffs out her hair. The shirt reaches mid-thigh.

She turns to me and quirks a brow. _What do you think?_

I think I have a girlfriend. I think Katniss enjoys making me feel like a fool. And I think I like her even less for it.

Fine. Two can play at this game.

I stand and level her with my eyes. Approaching her, I reach for the undone button above her collarbone, prolonging the act of slipping it through the corresponding slit, then rubbing the button between my fingers. Is it my imagination or do I hear an intake of breath?

I take a step back and challenge, "Tell me why you don't you talk, and I'll tell you exactly what I think."

Katniss's gaze skates over my face but can't settle on one spot. Once she's done that enough times, she presses her lips together in annoyance, wheels around and leaves, the tail of my shirt flapping behind her. That must be a chronic habit: walking away.

It's obvious what she wants. She wants me to want my shirt back. She wants me _come and get it._

But after what happened in the village square, when coming and getting it required my hand down her skirt, I've learned not to make the same mistake twice. I'm not going to _come and get it_ again. I'm not that stupid.

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